It is St George’s Day, the patron saint of the English. In these strange time it seems, both, a little incongruous and also somewhat apt that our patron saint should hail from Syria and be of Italian extraction. Potentially, soon, we could be back to 1535, before Wales, 1707 Scotland and 1851 Ireland joined to make us the United Kingdom. St David and St Patrick are local boyos (bishops) done good. St Andrew, like St George is an import. Nevertheless they are all loved and celebrated, well all except St George.

BREXIT maybe the opportunity to redress the balance and give St George greater prominence. As Britain, well England leaves the EU (now back to being referred to as the Continent) and our three other partners in the United Kingdom head off to become provinces of Canada, Tierra del Fuego, Boston and New York, we English will stand proudly alone – once again.

Let us embrace this chance to rewrite history. After a period of stocktaking, we could go on the campaign trail – reclaiming our lost territories particularly those lost through Salic Law claims in Northern France. I am sure that the French on the northern coast, wearied after years of British run peace and refugee camps and selling tourists cheap wine and cheese will not put up much of a fight.

Prince Harry, stands out to be our leader on the campaign, he can make a rallying speech on the White Cliffs of Dover recalling past victories “Once more unto an Ibizan beach, dear friends, once more and close up the doorways with our English dead (drunk)”. Then using our two mighty aircraft carriers as a land bridge, the aircraft still not being available and the RAF not willing to fly as it is early in the morning, it’s not Wednesday and there are no half decent five star hotels in Dover. The army will be seen off by Pippa Middleton who will give each hero a favour, a sprig of Norfolk Mustard, bound in ivy and columbine (the social climber). So when fighting, our troops can taste the heat of battle while chewing on their favour.

In the van of our attack will be a Brigade from Leicester, proud in their blue and white with their newly approved (by the Queen) battle honour ‘Gibraltar’, for their plucky and bloody incursion in Sir Francis Drake style to Spain. They would be supported by mixed battalions drawn from Crystal Palace, Leeds, and Millwall. Strong lads who if the enemy won’t fight, they will – among themselves. The bands will playing stirring tunes to stiffen the sinews and summon up the blood, ‘Gibraltar, Gibraltar it’s my kind of town’ and ‘Do you know the way to Algeciras?’

Our progress will be swift, once on the flat, open plains in the hinterland of Calais and Boulogne we will rest a while at Azincourt. Here Prince Harry’s speech will have to have been rewritten no more Exeter, Bedford and Gloucester, these are rugby playing towns and their public school educated players will have connections in France and may be as treacherous as Scrope, Cambridge and Grey. They will be replaced by Southampton, Norwich and Portsmouth. As he jumps from his cart, Prince Harry leads his army onwards motivating them with his Cry…..

“For Good, Harry, England, and St Jude”